


Fire and Ice

by Watchfulhours



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s), Reincarnation, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watchfulhours/pseuds/Watchfulhours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems Steve Rogers life always ends in water and ice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire and Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: temporary major character death [of a sort], drowning, use and abuse of historical characters and timelines, ambiguous/open ending.

It seems like Steve’s life always ends in water and ice.

…

In the beginning Nanahautl was a child with too big eyes and too many ideas to be contained in his feeble frame. In the warrior’s culture he was born to, he was overlooked.

Always overlooked.

Until the day when the sun began to die in the sky, and a new one was required. Yet out of all the warriors in the land none wanted to replace it. 

Except for Nanahuatl, the child who was no warrior, the man who could not lift a sword. He threw himself on the pyre to burn, sacrificing all that he had for humanity.

And it was more then enough…

…

The first time was to the gentle croon of his mother’s lullabies.

‘Min norske Vinter er saa vakker; De hvide sneebedækte Bakker, Og grønne Gran med puddret Haar, Og trofast Iis paa dybe Vande, Og Engledragt paa nøgne Strande; Jeg bytter neppe mod en Vaar. Nu Dalens muntre Sønner glide Paa Skier ned fra Fjeldets Side’.

The ship rocked and groaned and Noel held on tighter to his brother. Aksel whimpered and his face paled further until Noel began to worry his little body had finally ran out of blood. 

‘Saa rask som Piil i Luften fløi, Nu let paa Skøiter de sig svinge, Nu Kanefartens Bjelder klinge, Og Øret dirrer af den Støi.  
Fra Fjeldets Gruber Malmen kjøres, Og Mastetræ til Stranden føres’, his mother sang on in her lovely voice, hardly audible against the sound of the waves beating against the hull. And the sick moans of the rest of the slaves.

“Mama”, Noel interrupted, tugging at her sleeve until she ceased her song and looked down at him with tired eyes. “I don’t think Aksel is getting better”.  
“Let me see”, she murmured, and Noel handed over the little boy. “Oh my darling”, she gasped as she unwrapped the bandages covering Aksel’s stomach. Even from a distance Noel could smell the rot.

The ship shuddered and groaned, something on the deck above going boom as they were swept up in another wave. Noel swallowed his words and looked nervously at the creaking wooden hull.

‘At trodse Død og Storm og Kulde, At være fri men Kongen hulde’, he muttered to himself. To defy death and storm and cold To be free and yet the king faithful.

Boom.

From above, shouting.

Boom.

Creak.

“Mama-“

Crack.

Silence.

And then, with a great shudder the ship began to tip sideways. Up and up. His mother lost her grip on Aksel, who would’ve tumbled to the ground if Noel had not caught him. He staggered, running up the wall that was rapidly becoming the floor to keep his balance. And then, through the entrance to the deck in rolled the water.  
Noel gasped as the frigid, dark water rushed his knees and began to climb. The slaves began to scream, terrified, pressing up against the hull and trying to climb each other in order to get away. Madness.

With a whoosh their only light source, a little lamp, was extinguished and the dark that fell across the space was absolute.

‘At trodse Død og Storm og Kulde’, Noel muttered to himself, like a prayer. He struggled to get he and his brother away from the water, now at his waist. Almost succeeding in holding on to a bit of metal jutting from the wood. Except he was grabbed from behind, thrown off and dumped back in the dark, churning water by someone who wanted to live more then they wanted him to. 

And Noel went under. The water was over his head and he was unable to swim, burdened by the cold, unmoving body of his brother. He thrashed, flailing with his free arm and managed to clear his head to hear the boom. Crack.

A gap appeared above his head, small but rapidly being pried apart by large, worn hands. The same hands that had taken his people as slaves and weren’t ready to risk their profit. Noel didn’t care. There was a gap in the hull, and that meant a chance.

With both his hands he held out Aksel, the weight of his brother thrusting Noel’s head back under the water. He fought, kicking with both legs, straining with all he had to propel his brother up and out. So he might have a chance. So they both might have a chance.

His lungs burned, his head began to ache with the pressure and his arms began to drop. Noel forced them up, until he felt someone lift his brother. He forced his head out of the water in time to see Aksel being lifted out of the death trap, and then Noel was forced under. Forced under and trampled by the desperate who saw the light at the end of the tunnel, and it wasn’t the one they had expected.

Noel panicked, lungs on fire, trying to thrash his way to the surface. Someone kneed his chest, forcing the air out of his lungs. Noel opened his eyes, mouth open to inhale, and saw only darkness.

He died.

…

Rome claimed their land. Rome claimed them all.

Artor hated them.

He grew up, small and bitter on a farmstead outside Laundinium. Small and feeble, easily contracting the worst of the colds and fevers. Everyone doubted that, as a boy, he would live. He did live, though. He grew to manhood although he could not lift a sword, nor help in any meaningful way confined as he was to the homestead. But he lived, and he watched the soldiers of Rome take the villager’s harvests and force their ways upon the Celts in the name of protection. And he could not do anything. Not even when the soldiers left and Rome retreated back to their lands, leaving the Celts to defend against the sea wolves and Picti. His people suffered, and Artor could not defend them.

Until one day the roaming bard left behind a sword in a stone, proclaiming only the true king of Britain would be able to wield it. And Artor, small, feeble Artor watched as the strongest men in the land tried their luck and failed. Brave Ector, strong Cai. None could lift the sword.

None but Artor who, in a jest, mimed taking the blade, which slid through its stone sheath as if it were only butter.

So began his reign, which was no reign at all and would win him no true fame in history. He gathered a war band of over a hundred men, and began to push the darkness from the lands of Albion. He held back the sea wolves until his life was stolen by treachery, stabbed in the back and left to drown in the frozen waters of Avalon.

So ended Artorius Rex.

But his story would live on.

…

Alector kept watch in the night.

The women of their group slept peacefully in one corner of the dilapidated hovel they had found, watched over by the hawkish eyes of Carina, an ex-Syrian slave who had no memory of any land other then Rome. The men slept in the far corner, and by ‘men’ Alector meant the old Cymru merchant and his spotty young apprentice.

A more pitiful group he had never seen, but they had come to Alector’s farmstead seeking aid, and Alector’s father had sent him to guide them over the Alps. And Alector, although he had questioned, had never denied another human being aid.

Though he did resent the Roman Soldiers dogging their heels, hence his watch.

He looked back their way and found Carina’s dark eyes boring into his own. She gestured for him to come to her, but he shook his head and pointed out into the night. Carina frowned, but stood and moved to Alector’s side.

“How far behind are the soldiers?”

Alector frowned; sure that he had already made this clear. “No more then a day behind”, he told her anyway.

A troubled sigh escaped her lips, and at Alector’s look she continued. “Laria cannot continue on”. She spoke of the young Roman woman, heavily pregnant with what Carina believed were twins. “She is too tired. It is not good for a woman of her condition to travel such distances, at such a speed”.

“What are you suggesting?” Alector asked, softly now.

“We leave her behind”, she continued quickly when she saw the condemnation in Alector’s eyes. “The Roman soldiers will not harm a woman pregnant with twins”.

“And after?”

Carina refused to meet his gaze, eyes canting to the left and out the open doorway.

“No”, Alector said, quietly but firmly. “I was charged with the safety of you all. Not to murder one in the hope that the rest will live. Fortuna will turn against us”.

“You are but a boy, you do not understand such things. Our message is too important”.

“I understand enough. Like what is right, and what is wrong. It has gotten me this far into my life and I intend that it shall carry me further. We leave first thing in the morning, and you will lead them north”.

“I?” Carina’s face was inscrutable.

Alector scrubbed at his face, looking weary beyond his years. “I have already decided what it is I shall do. You will head north, the Alps are unmistakable and you already have my maps. And I? I will head south towards the soldiers”.

“You will die”.

“Maybe, but you will live”. He hesitated and then said, coldly, “It had better be worth it”.

Carina turned away, shamed.

Alector had no intentions of dying.

In the morning he left the group, heading south to meet the soldiers. He hid in the woods, waited until they came by before picking them off. One by one with his slingshot, disappearing into the trees when they tried to follow. 

He continued this for days, harassing the group and ensuring they had to slow down, burdened by the wounded. And every time Alector disappeared.

He knew his luck had to run out. He was but one man.

The soldiers grew wise to his tricks, began to post guards in the fringes of the tree line. And Alector was caught, stabbed in the back and left to drown in a lake of snowmelt.

He would not live to see the irony.

…

Steve Rogers was born on the water, in a ship headed away from Ireland to America. The midwife, if she could be called that, proclaimed him sickly and premature. She said, sympathetic to the exhausted Sarah, he would not live to see the boat dock.

Steve Rogers lived.

Brooklyn was not the glorious new start promised to the immigrants, but rather a stew pot of violence and poverty. Where the poor just got poorer, the economy grew worse, and very few climbed to the top.

Steve Rogers grew up breathing in the filth and coughing it out, until his limbs shook and his lungs burned with the fires of ill health. His mother was warned he might not live to see his twenties. She died before he could reach them.

When he was twenty the only person in the world who gave him a chance was taken by the war, and in a world dominated by warriors Steve was unable to follow. He tried anyway. And then he did.

At twenty-five Steve lost Bucky and crashed a plane into the ice. As he was crushed by the freezing water he thought, damn if this ain’t familiar.

…

It seems Steve’s life always ends in water and ice.

…

It was just this was the only time he ever woke up.

 

Translations;

Den Norske Vinter

Min norske Vinter er saa vakker;  
De hvide sneebedækte Bakker,  
Og grønne Gran med puddret Haar,  
Og trofast Iis paa dybe Vande,  
Og Engledragt paa nøgne Strande;  
Jeg bytter neppe mod en Vaar.

Nu Dalens muntre Sønner glide  
Paa Skier ned fra Fjeldets Side  
Saa rask som Piil i Luften fløi,  
Nu let paa Skøiter de sig svinge,  
Nu Kanefartens Bjelder klinge,  
Og Øret dirrer af den Støi.

Fra Fjeldets Gruber Malmen kjøres,  
Og Mastetræ til Stranden føres,  
Og Kulden selv gir Farten Liv,  
Og Snee paa Fjelde Veien baner  
For norske Bondes Karavaner.  
Flid er min Landsmands Tidsfordriv.

Men vi, som Tid med Spøg fordrive,  
Og Vennelav med Sang oplive  
I varme Sal ved breden Bord,  
Vi drak, om vi ei kunde andet,  
Skaal for den første Stand i Landet,  
Som pløier Hav og dyrker Jord.

Held følge den, som Malmen bryder,  
Hvor Jordens haarde Barm frembyder  
Forborgen Skat til flittig Haand!  
At trodse Død og Storm og Kulde,  
At være fri men Kongen hulde,  
Det er den norske Bondes Aand.

Han skaber ikke Porceliner,  
Og ei bereder hede Viner,  
Men for hans Sveed vi kjøbe dem;  
Han bygger vore Huse tætte,  
Og Vildt, som vi med Smag anrette,  
Han bringer os fra Skoven frem.

Fred hvile over Kuldens Bolig!  
Der sidder raske Nordmand rolig,  
Beskjermet mod hver Uvens Vold;  
Og den, som turde Freden bryde,  
For sildig skal den Kamp fortryde;  
Vi føre Frihed i vort Skjold.

Om Alting fryser her i Norge,  
For Venskabs Varme tør jeg borge;  
Thi der er Ild i Nordmands Bryst.  
Kom, Broder! kom, men uden Kulde,  
Hverandre indtil Døden hulde,  
Syng Venskabs Skaal med mandig Røst!

The Norwegian Winter

My norwegian winter is so beautiful  
The white snowcovered hills  
And the green spruce with powdered hair  
A faithful layer on deep waters  
And angelclothing on naked beaches  
I would not trade it for spring

Now the merry sons of the valley slide  
On skis down the mountain side  
As swift as an arrow flying through the air  
Now lightly on ice skates they spin  
Now the bells of the sleigh jingles  
And the ear quivers from the noise

From the mountain pit the ore is driven  
And tree for masts are led to the beach  
And the cold itself gives life to the bustle  
And snow on the mountains lead the way  
For norwegian peasants' caravanes  
Diligence is the pastime of my countrymen

But we, who by jokes pass the time  
And among friends with singing enliven  
In warm halls by broad tables  
We drank, as if we could no else  
Cheers for the first place in the country  
That first plough the sea and cultivates the earth

Luck follow he who mine the ore  
Where earth's hard bossom provides  
Hidden treasure to the hard-working hand!  
To defy death and storm and cold  
To be free and yet the king faithful  
That is the spirit of the norwegian peasant

He does not create porcelain  
Nor does he make spirits  
But by his sweat do we buy them  
He builds our houses weatherproof  
And game, which we with taste prepare  
He brings forth from the woods

Peace on the home of cold!  
There sit plucky Norwegians calm  
Shielded against all ill-wishers doings  
For he, who dared to break the peace  
Too late the battle would regret  
We carry freedom in our shield

Though all may freeze here in Norway  
For friendship's warmth I dare to vouch  
For is there fire in a Norwegian's breast  
Come, brother! come, but without cold  
Each other until the faithful death,  
Sing friendship's toast with manly voice!

Taken from http://lyricstranslate.com/en/den-norske-vinter-norwegian-winter.html#ixzz3CzkfQgvG


End file.
